


Kisses Speak

by Nym



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M, First Time, One Shot, PWP, Prompt Fic, Smutlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-04
Updated: 2012-10-04
Packaged: 2017-11-15 15:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/528914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nym/pseuds/Nym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is his and he is hers.  Tonight should be theirs.</p><p>
  <em>Bending, she studies her distorted reflection in the silvered surface of a strange kettle. She's less of a fright than she thought she would be - pale but not deathly so. Her lips are dry and cracking, her eyes puffy from tiredness and tears, but Rumpelstiltskin seems not to mind, any more than Belle minds the lines on his face or the stubble on his chin. If they're beyond all that, then she's glad.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kisses Speak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [temporarily](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=temporarily).



> [temporarily](http://temporarily.tumblr.com/) asked for: _First time for Belle and Mr. Gold post-Belle's jailbreak!_
> 
> **None of my fanfiction may be reposted or otherwise shared elsewhere, including translations and audio recordings, unless you have my written consent. Using my occasional original ideas/characters in your own fanfic, to make your _own_ words or art or whatever, is fine with me.**

The room he offers her is his own, all dark wood furniture and deep reds. It's a man's place, and Belle doesn't need eyes familiar with this world to recognise that. He shows her a bathroom, which she recognises, and an array of lotions in bottles which she does not. She picks through them, slowly, finding something tragic in the sober and drab masculinity of it all. At home... no... in the old world, Rumpelstiltskin was an array of subtle colours, earth tones and bright gold, and he surrounded himself with opulence even if he did not appreciate it.

Belle appreciates the hot shower, the water beating down hard enough to sting her skin. It's a far cry from her once-a-week ablutions at the asylum with the icy nurse standing guard at the door. The water was never quite hot, there, and trickled unappealingly from a clogged up nozzle onto cracked and yellowing tile. The soap was nothing but little translucent wafers that washed away the moment they were used, hopeless for her hair. She was cleaner in her old life, washing with nothing but a jug, a basin and a sponge.

Among the pine-smelling bottles, Belle finds one to remedy that. She lathers up joyfully, using far too much of the stuff, but the plentiful and scalding hot water soon rinses it all away and leaves her hair feeling silken, rich and smooth. It leaves her smelling as he smells, now - faintly of pine needles, when she presses her face into his clothes and holds on for all she is worth. It's not how he used to smell, Rumpelstiltskin, but neither does he look as he used to look. The eyes that plead with her now are a honeyed brown, framed by straight, smooth hair that runs to grey and even to white. She still sees him as he was - cursed, and beautiful to her in a backwards way; perfect in his uniqueness.

The towels over the heated rail are black, thick and luxurious. Belle wraps herself in two of them and pats the worst of the water out of her hair with a third. The mirror above the sink has steamed up and she does nothing about it. She has had no mirror, these endless years, and doesn't know what she might see if she wipes the condensation away. Doesn't know what _he_ sees, now, except that he looks at her with those honey-eyes full of anguish, and loves her still.

Always has.

That's why Belle's surprised that he isn't there waiting for her, in the bedroom, when she emerges wrapped in towels. Nightclothes are laid out for her - his, clearly, but he has chosen with care - and the covers are turned back, invitingly. A cup of chocolate sits on the nightstand, and the room is warm.

Once, she would have smiled at his hesitancy and been touched by his gesture. Now, Belle stands hopelessly, looks at the green silk pyjamas, and wonders why he doesn't want to make love to her. Did he ever? She used to think so, when she caught his furtive glances - used to think that he found her tantalising. She thought that it would be a comfort for them both, tonight, to surrender to one another in his bed. She doesn't want to be here alone, and succumb to the nightmares instead.

Swamped in his pyjamas and smothered in a black towelling dressing gown, Belle takes another look around the lonely bedroom, then goes to look for Rumpelstiltskin.

His house is large, far larger than a man by himself could possibly need. That, at least, makes her feel a little at home here, as she wanders over threadbare but quality carpets, her feet muffled in a pair of Rumpelstiltskin's socks. Everywhere is clutter, things that feel old and well made but, above all, useless. It's as though he has decorated his home to appear occupied rather than to be lived in, and Belle thinks that she understands. His shop doesn't feel like this, though it's packed full of objects from this world and their own. His shop feels the way the Dark Castle did, before she brushed away the dust and cobwebs and let in the light.

Even his spinning wheel is there, though he spins wool here, not gold.

Mister Gold. Belle supposes that to be Queen Regina's handiwork, along with much of the town. A jibe that, like the woman herself, lacks subtlety or any real purpose. To Belle, he will always be Rumpelstiltskin, even if, here, he limps heavily and leans on a walking stick, and greets her with a gold-toothed little smile.

He's in the kitchen, which she locates by following her nose. He offered her food when they arrived, and the shower seemed far more appealing, but now Belle feels a little hunger - now that she is clean, warm and safe. He looks around in surprise at the shuffle of her steps, but surprise is almost immediately transformed into pleasure, lifting his sombre features.

"I thought you were tired," he says, wiping his hands on a cloth and putting a slice of toast on a plate, one bite taken from the corner. "Did you find everything you needed?"

"Almost everything," Belle says, and takes him by the hand. The kitchen makes her uneasy, for she can barely recognise it as such. The smell of cooking, of toast, and the presence of a large sink with a small stack of drying crockery, is her only certain clue. It doesn't matter, when he gathers her against his side, kissing the top of her head, letting her bury her face in the shoulder of his shirt and cling to him until she's ready to let go.

"What do you need, love?" he asks, lips stirring her hair. "I can go out. Name it."

Belle wonders if he's noticed that this new land of his is in uproar, its people suddenly remembering, just as she remembers, a life in a world they've left behind. He unleashed some sort of demon upon them, in his quest for vengeance against Regina, and things exploded in the streets because of it. Shopkeepers are probably not keeping their shops, at this hour, on such a night.

"I have it now," she says, lifting her head to watch how he takes it. For a few seconds, he fails to understand, and then wonder turns his weathered face almost boyish as he smiles. "I wanted to be sure you wouldn't leave me."

"Never again," he vows, without pause for breath. She can barely feel his hands through the thick robe, but he's rubbing her back, and she likes that very much.

"I meant," Belle says, smiling too broadly because she's suddenly shy, "tonight."

"...oh." Rumpelstiltskin blinks, every line and wrinkle of his features becoming pronounced with the slightest of frowns. Belle likes them, the ordinariness of them - the warmth that seems to lurk there, hidden in the creases. "But you're exhausted," he frets, lifting his left hand to stroke her cheek. His right grips a work surface, supporting him in the absence of his cane.

"You look done in, yourself." Belle waits for his nod of confession, and for the return of his small, wondering smile. It's as though he hadn't considered that she might want to - not only tonight, but ever. It's enough to lay her fears to rest - those fears, anyway - and she reaches her arms around him, careful not to unbalance him as she leans in and squeezes with all her strength.

Rumpelstiltskin holds her gently, in return, both hands clasping her to him, until her stomach makes a demanding gurgle and she lifts her head from his shoulder, sheepish.

"Have this," he suggests, releasing her and retrieving his cane, then moving aside so that she can reach the plate he was using. One slice of toast has a bite taken from it, the other has gone cold, untouched. There's butter on it, and the bread is nutty and soft - richer than anything she can remember tasting, in this world. Belle leans at the counter and eats it, very slowly, while Rumpelstiltskin pours a glass of milk and sets it beside the usurped plate. "We'll buy food tomorrow," he says, encouragingly. "Whatever you like."

"I like this." Belle smiles around the last bite of the toast, feeling better already for a lining to her stomach. "Don't you want yours?"

"Not really." He hesitates, behind her, and Belle holds her breath in the hope that he will linger there, and touch her. She knows that he'd like to, and that he hardly knows where to begin. He could scarcely tear his eyes from her while she wore the rather revealing frock that he'd picked out for her to wear. It's encouraging that he seems equally drawn to her, bundled up as she is in oversized things. "Are you sure, Belle?" His cane scrapes against the floor and he shifts his weight, watching her from too near.

"Yes," she promises, trying to keep her voice from breaking. Her breath catches when Rumpelstiltskin presses a kiss to the back of her head, lingering a long time without a breath of his own. When he steps back, she hears him sigh the held breath away, and it's as shaken as her own.

Belle has always been his, from the second that she spotted the twinkle behind the sneer. She wants for him to be hers, as well, at last.

At long last.

"Give me ten minutes," Rumpelstiltskin begs of her, and although Belle nods, fear plays a drumbeat in her ribcage until she hears him limp up the stairs, into the room, and understands that he delays her in order to ready himself in private rather than to see to another one of his ever-simmering schemes.

She drinks her milk, remembering something that the nurse - her jailer in the other world - told her, about healthy bones. There was something about sunlight, as well, and Belle was given a pill every day, and told that it was as good as sunshine.

For bones, perhaps it was.

Bending, she studies her distorted reflection in the silvered surface of a strange kettle. She's less of a fright than she thought she would be - pale but not deathly so. Her lips are dry and cracking, her eyes puffy from tiredness and tears, but Rumpelstiltskin seems not to mind, any more than Belle minds the lines on his face or the stubble on his chin. If they're beyond all that, then she's glad.

Ten minutes last an age, but patience has leeched into her very soul by now. Waiting is all that she's known, for more years than she wants to think about. She passes the minutes with her milk, and then goes back up the stairs. She can hear the watery thunder of the shower, before she reaches the open door, and sees that he has put out the lights in the adjoining bedroom.

There's light enough from the stairs, so Belle sheds the cosy robe and gets beneath the bedclothes. The bed is another new experience among many. For one thing, the mattress beneath her is _warm_. For another, the bedclothes above her seem as light as air, yet they trap heat and make her snug. The pillow has caught the scent of Rumpelstiltskin - that pine note, again, and Belle buries her face there, curling up towards the middle of the bed. It's bliss.

He takes forever, in the bathroom, after he turns off the water. Belle blinks in the half-dark and tries to keep herself from becoming drowsy. Time for sleep, later. Soon.

First, a little time for them.

When Rumpelstiltskin emerges, turning off the bright light behind him, he is wearing pyjamas quite similar to the ones she has borrowed. He waits there, at the doorway, hesitating to approach until Belle sits up and holds out her hand. The bed would be large enough for them to decently share, had they no designs on one another, but Belle means to be in the very middle, with him right beside her, and not to let go in the night.

"Darling," he breathes, coming to her and momentarily squeezing her outstretched hand. He needs both of his, though, to work his way into bed beside her. He releases a long sigh when he's finally still, the troublesome leg stretched out straight.

"Does it hurt very much?" Belle asks, gently.

"Only while I'm conscious," he quips, in that voice - the old voice, the one that's all but gone now in this big and busy world where he's only a man, whatever he calls himself. "Come here, love," Rumpelstiltskin whispers, offering his arms. Belle does, bending over to kiss him and sinking happily into the embrace. He strokes her back, her arm, her hair, and lets her show him with kisses how certain she is of giving herself.

She's going to like kissing, Belle thinks. He's clean shaven where, before, he was all bristles, and she likes this better. When they've mastered it, banished the little moments of awkwardness and the occasional snigger as something goes wrong, she's going to like kissing more than she likes _anything_ , because she feels so close to him while their mouths slide together. And kisses speak, as she long ago read in her books that they ought to. At first, theirs speaks of tender reunion, of welcoming, of apology and forgiveness. After a while, their breathing louder and faster, the kiss means longing, and need.

Rumpelstiltskin tips her over, gently, in the middle of a particularly deep and ambitious kiss, causing Belle to gasp with surprise and excitement when his mouth leaves hers and, hot, wet and tickling slightly, travels the kisses down her jaw to her left ear, and from there down her throat to where the collar of the shirt gets in his way.

Curious, enjoying how the touch of mouth against skin makes her fidget, she becomes aware of the little stings of desire in her loins. She's none too familiar with that, having desired no-one but him, but recognises it for what it is, and doesn't try to deny it as she has always done before. She is his, and he is hers, and this will be theirs. Just as she worries that she ought to be doing something more than lie still and enjoy herself, Rumpelstiltskin surges back up from her neckline to reclaim her mouth, and this time the kisses speak of hunger and lost time.

"Belle," he gasps, breaking for air as though they're surfacing in a pool. She can't speak, it's all too wonderful, but she buries her hands in his damp hair and pulls him to her for another kiss, almost laughing at the freedom of it. She's never known about _this_ , about the sweet burn just inside her, or the way her nipples come alive at even an accidental touch, never mind when he tentatively rubs there, anxiously seeking permission in in her face, in the half-light.

Again, she thinks that she ought to do more than lie here, but Rumpelstiltskin seems happy, eager to please and sharing her urgency of feeling, her squirming excitement, so perhaps this is how it is done?

They unbutton her top, between them, smirking and chuckling and panting for breath, snatching kisses when they're not too distracted. Then his buttons, Belle making a better job of that than he managed of hers, because her hands shake rather less. The moment that she can, she plants her hands against his bare chest and strokes him everywhere she can reach, making him shiver and sink back into the pillows, swallowing convulsively and closing his eyes.

Touch, she remembers, the memory bursting like a hot firework in her heart. No matter how he avoided her, resisted her, he would capitulate at a touch, until she understood that he had been so starved of that simple thing, of another person's nearness, that he thought himself incapable and unworthy. To touch his hand or his shoulder had been to startle a gasp from him, in the other world. Here, changed but still so stubbornly apart, Rumpelstiltskin moans under her inexperienced caresses, hands feeble against her back until she stretches out above him and kisses him.

 _Please_ , says this new kiss. _Oh, please._ He hoists her a little higher, bringing their private parts into contact, and Belle groans as he hisses in shock, opening her legs to better feel the hard thing against her.

"We... we can't, love," Rumpelstiltskin gulps, trying to coax her higher. "Not tonight. Not that." Belle kisses him again, unwilling to be denied when her body has found what it has been seeking since his first touch. Two layers of silk separate them, and she's making them both wet through as she tries not to squirm. "Not that."

"I want to," she insists, resting her hands on his shoulders and rising up, impatiently tossing back her hair. "Don't you?"

"Oh yes, yes," he stammers, making Belle quite certain that he's losing his mind as much as she is. "But we can't. It's all right, love. Come here." Hampered by his leg, Rumpelstiltskin dislodges her, tips her onto her side with him still between her knees, and kisses her fervently. "My darling," he whispers, touching her breasts with a trembling hand. "I want to, I promise." The hand glides lower, plucks the drawstring that kept the pyjamas from falling around her ankles, and slips inside them. "Like this," Rumpelstiltskin croons, seeking kisses but unable to find the welcome rhythm from before. They're both scattered and shaking, but at least _he_ seems to have some idea of what to do about it.

Belle's world narrows sharply, until his hand is the only thing she cares about - can remember ever caring about. Even his first, timid touch sets her aflame, and her moan of 'yes' is all he needs to reassure him; he fingers where she's slippery, exploring, seeking something, and when Belle goes still with absolute awe at the sensation he elicits, he kisses her properly again. She swallows, remembers to move her mouth, realises that his hand is mirroring the rhythm she shows him with their kisses, and buries her hand in his hair again to make certain that the contact doesn't slip away. Even when shocked, wobbly little yelps start escaping her, they kiss. Even when the throb of need unfolds into a pounding, white hot joy, they kiss, and the kiss speaks of love.

Only love.

Somewhere in the midst of all that bliss, Rumpelstiltskin groans, long and low and heartfelt. It's only in the cooling afterwards, when the world once again seems larger than the size of his wonderful hand, that Belle realises he has had his pleasure too.

Her head is on his shoulder, and they're hot and damp, even though the light-as-clouds bedclothes have gone wandering.

"Belle?" Rumpelstiltskin sounds drowsy, his voice soft as his body is slack, perfectly relaxed beside her. "Are you all right?"

It takes her two tries to make her voice work, and she nestles nearer to him, too shy to ask what they ought to do about all the stickiness that seems to be left over.

"Yes," she promises, her hand stroking his bare chest, unhurried. She hasn't been all right, not for a very long time now, but in Rumpelstiltskin's arms, Belle at last believes that she might be again, one day soon.

Sleep comes quickly, and she doesn't dream.

**Author's Note:**

> **None of my fanfiction may be reposted or otherwise shared elsewhere, including translations and audio recordings, unless you have my written consent. Using my occasional original ideas/characters in your own fanfic, to make your _own_ words or art or whatever, is fine with me.**


End file.
